


Things are pretty good from here

by singtome



Series: Afterwards [1]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Background Gally/Minho, Demisexuality, Discussions of sex, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-TDC, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13744290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singtome/pseuds/singtome
Summary: Aris asks him, “What do you like?” and Thomas looks at him and thinks,I like the way your eyes crinkle in the corners when you laugh.





	Things are pretty good from here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sulfuric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sulfuric/gifts).



> I technically wrote this as a part of the [After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264616/chapters/14353744/) universe, but feel free to imagine whatever post-tdc scenario that you wish.
> 
> Title from _Sign of the Times_ by Harry Styles.

-

 

“Wait, so let me get this straight –” Minho’s palms are rested flat on the dining table, body leant forward with intent and his eyes poised upon Thomas sat opposite him, who sighs into his tea for the fourth time this afternoon. He silently wishes the liquid was still hot enough for him to burn his tongue on, so he would at least have some excuse not to continue this conversation, “You and Aris. You two, like, you don’t? At _all_?”

Thomas sets his mug down slowly and rubs his eyes hard enough to hurt, desperately wishing he’d never come here at all.

“No, Minho,” he sighs, “We don’t. Why is this so hard to believe?”

Minho struggles for a moment, grasping and ungrasping various words, none of them making it the full journey out of his mouth, “Because – Because. I don’t know –”

It goes on like this, until Thomas finally groans and, almost snapping but not quite, “Not everyone’s lives revolve around sex, Minho.”

“Um,” Minho rears back in offence, “Are you implying that mine does?”

Thomas rolls his eyes, scratching at the handle of the mug where the blue paint is beginning to chip off. “Please,” he says, “I’ve walked in on you and Gally more times this month than I could count.”

“Listen, shank, you’re the one who’s never learnt how to knock.”

“I don’t –” Thomas begins, annoyed, cutting his friend off, “Listen, he doesn’t need it and neither do I, actually, since you’re so eager to know.”

Minho pauses. A moment passes in silence. And then, “Really?”

Thomas chips a fingernail of paint off the mug, “Really.”

Another moment. Then, “So never at all? Not even once?”

Thomas stares down at the half drank tea wondering if it were possible to drown yourself in it. “Can I go home?” he whines.

Minho taps on the table, “Nuh uh. Sit. Answer. This is fascinating – I am genuinely curious, Thomas! – So what do you do? I know you kiss and stuff, but does it ever go any further? Have you seen each other naked?”

Thomas shuts his eyes and tries to push down the fast approaching headache. The answer to the first is: sort of.

Before, when he and Aris had first started this, when it was nothing but curious glances and shy smiles and Thomas loitering about Aris’ living room in the early hours of the morning when neither of them could sleep, his nose in a book and Aris brewing something-or-other on the stove. When it was quiet, simple conversations that would last hours and hours. When casual conversation to pass the time lead into more personal, deepest-darkest-secret territory, that lead into accidental bushes of skin that became more purposeful over time, which ended in Aris pushing Thomas up against the kitchen counter and kissing him for one breathless moment before running away in mortification and locking himself in the bathroom.

After, when Thomas gently coaxed him out and they talked about it, and that first kiss followed into a second, and a third and fourth and so on, coupled with cuddling and bed-sharing and falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing. Fast forward two months and Aris plants himself down across from Thomas and anxiously spits out like he’d been holding it in for some time and he is bursting at the seams because of it, that he doesn’t have much, if not any interest in sex.

Thomas had blinked in surprise, and when his brain had finally caught up, he’d simply said, “Okay. That’s fine,” and continued with his sandwich. Aris, with a little concerned crease between his eyebrows that Thomas eventually had to kiss away, didn’t much look like he believed him.

Then, some weeks later, when Aris had finally been convinced that Thomas wasn’t lying for his sake, one night when they were lounging together on the couch as they often do, he swivelled around and announced that he “wanted to try it”, so out of the blue that it took Thomas a moment to realise what he was talking about.

And they did. And it was just short of an absolute disaster.

Tense and nervous, a learning curve for both of them, it had ended being more technical and frustrating than anything else, and left them both lying silently on the mattress feeling awkward, the space between their bodies roaring loudly.

The answer to second is: “Yeah. All the time.”

Miho looks like he has whiplash, “What?”

Thomas shrugs, taking another sip of tea, grimacing at the lukewarm, too-sweet taste, “First off, not that it’s any of your business,” he glares up at Minho, who blinks innocently, “but yes. We, like,” The words curl funny around his tongue and Thomas, irritatingly, feels his cheeks warming, “take showers together.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up, “That’s – wait, hang on. Are you blushing? Shuck, you are!” He barks a delighted laugh, slapping the table with glee, “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Thomas moans, “Shut _up_. We also share a room, okay, it’s kind of hard not to.”

Minho considers this a moment, “Yeah, fine. But you didn’t answer the first question.”

“I am not answering the first question, go fuck yourself,” Thomas says without remorse. Minho holds his palms up in surrender, _good god finally_.

“Okay, okay. Look, in all honesty,” Minho begins, his voice turning more sincere than it has been all afternoon, “You guys are pretty cute, I have to admit. And I’m happy for you.”

His friend’s tone holds a heavy note Thomas doesn’t want to acknowledge.

(In reality, it was hard. The healing process hadn’t been pretty. It had taken Thomas months to an entire year for the guilt to stop eating him whole, to stop reminiscing about something probably made up in his brain, that he might have ever had in the first place; for Aris’ hair to stop morphing to a lighter shade of blond when he closed his eyes, for his eyes to stop changing colour, for him to see Aris and nothing else.

It still hurts, some days, but it is getting better – _has_ gotten better, _so much_ , and Aris is more understanding than Thomas thinks he deserves.)

Minho kicks his ankle under the table, sensing the place that his thoughts have spiralled, and expertly pulls him out of it with a smile and a dumb remark. Thomas laughs, anyway.

“Oh, and by the way,” Minho says later, yelling over the water rinsing out the mugs, “I want you to know that if that little twink ever breaks your heart I’ll shuck him up.”

Thomas rolls his eyes good-naturedly and doesn’t say that if anyone were to be breaking someone’s heart, it would, at the end of the day, always be Thomas.

 

 

The front door of Aris’ cabin slamming shut behind Thomas is like music to his ears. He sighs, leaning against it, rubbing his temples. Further into the house, he hears Aris call his name in question. The late afternoon light filters through the open window and spills into the hallway like liquid, and when Aris appears it catches in his hair and in his eyes, turning the green murkier, more washed out. 

He leans lazily against the wall, barefoot and arms crossed, white t-shirt half tucked into jeans too big for him, ones he’d stolen from Thomas the day before, bottoms rolled up to his calves, and something inside Thomas’ chest fills with warmth. One eyebrow is slightly raised, patiently waiting.

Thomas says, “God, I hate him.”

Aris laughs and replies with no hesitation, “No, you don’t. You’re obsessed with him.”

Thomas splutters a moment, “I am not!”

“It’s a fact! Gally says so.”

“Gally – okay, let me tell you something about Gally. Gally didn’t even know your name until a few months ago.”

Aris shrugs one shoulder, uncaring. Thomas groans, ready to move on from this conversation, ready to sleep, ready to collapse in Aris’ arms, ready to press his face in the crook of his neck and feel his heartbeat, ready to cleanse his soul.

He asks, “What’ve you been up to?”

Aris sticks a thumb over his shoulder indolently, “Just drawing.”

“Drawing what?”

Aris shrugs once again, “Anything. Nothing. Memories, mostly.” He smirks, “You.”

“Me? Why me?”

Aris’ grin stretches wider, “Because you’re pretty.”

Thomas’ chest flutters and he stubbornly refuses to allow his cheeks to redden for the second time this afternoon. Aris is always saying things like this, mostly just to see the reaction it brings out of Thomas, the little shit. So far he has not been disappointed.

Thomas kicks off the wall, huffily, and makes his way down the hall. Aris attempts to pinch him at the waist, a move which usually floors him, giggling when Thomas slaps his hand away. They play fight a moment, aiming to jab and tickle the other in revenge for the previous retaliation against a jab or a tickle, and they end up with Aris’ arms wrapped around Thomas’ neck as he piggy-back carries him the rest of the way into the house.

 

 

Later, when they’re watching the sunset – well, Thomas is watching the sunset and Aris is sat between his legs, leant against his chest, drawing it – that Thomas says, “Do you remember that time we tried to have sex?”

Aris snorts, not even looking up, “You mean the night we nearly broke up? Yeah, I do.”

The term “broke up” sounds so juvenile for two people in their situation, for everyone who has been through what they’ve been through, that it makes Thomas feel offbeat. Regardless, he continues, “Yeah, that night. It didn’t, um …” Thomas pauses and Aris must feel the tension in his body, as he stops drawing to listen to whatever is coming next.

“What I mean is,” he starts over, “You didn’t feel … pressured to do that, did you? I didn’t make you feel like you had to, did I?”

Talking about sex makes him feel strange in ways he doesn’t completely understand, and Thomas is relieved when Aris puts him out of his misery. Dropping the pencil and sketchbook, Aris pivots in place just enough to be able to look at Thomas, who keeps his eyes poised on the horizon.

“Did I feel pressured into having sex with you?” Aris recites, “No, Thomas. Did I want to? Yes.”

Thomas frowns, gnawing at a dry flake of skin on his lip, “Why?”

Aris takes a second to think. “I don’t know,” he says, “I thought it might be interesting, I guess.”

“Interesting?”

Aris nods, “A good learning experience. Kind of also wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Finally, Thomas breaks away from the setting sun to look down at Aris, who is gazing up at him expectantly.

“And what did you learn?” Thomas asks, a little scared.

“I learnt that you scrunch your eyes or wrinkle your nose when you’re concentrating on something really hard, and it’s adorable. I learnt that I like how your body feels against mine, and, maybe, I might like making you feel good.” Aris says this with a smile and all the nonchalance of someone discussing the weather, “Stuff like that.”

“Oh,” Thomas murmurs, unsure what else to say, “Cool.”

Aris laughs at him. “Cool?” he mimes, nudging him in the ribs.

“Yes. Cool. Great. Fantastic.”

Aris mock reels back, “Whoa, watch out, we got a wordsmith here. I’ve got a couple more for you – how ‘bout gnarly. Or _Radical_.”

Thomas shakes his head, unable to keep the fond little smile from creeping on to his face, “Shut up.”

They’re sitting in comfortable silence for some time. The sun has set and the room is now bathed in nothing but the muted orange glow of the dim lamp beside the bookshelf, Aris softly scratching the finishing touches into his sketch, humming. Thomas leans over his shoulder to observe – the landscape is immortalised forever in neat cross-hatching, sun and clouds bathe the threes and hills in warm light even despite the monotone. 

Aris’ cabin really does have the best view in the village. To this day Thomas is still confused as to how he managed this.  

They’ve been sitting there for a while, Aris’ shoulders are probably stiff as anything and Thomas’ backside is falling asleep, but neither of them is willing to move. Then he hears, “Did you like it?” so soft he’s almost convinced he imagined it.

“What?” Aris repeats the question, and Thomas says, “No,” before he can stop himself because he’s an idiot. Aris’ pencil halts and he furiously backtracks, “I mean yes. I mean –” Thomas has realised, not recently, that most of the problems in his life commence the second he opens his mouth, “It’s just that, I never really thought about sex before you brought it up that first time. I mean, how? When? With everything that was going on ...”

Below him, Aris hums thoughtfully. Thomas holds his breath as he watches him place the sketchbook and pencil on the couch and out of the way, agonizingly slow.

“Me too, I guess. I remember before, what it was like. It was the same back then. Back, y’know, before The Maze,” Aris fiddles unconsciously with Thomas’ fingers as he talks, “Some of the girls would look at me like they expected something from me and I had no idea what it was. Rach –” Aris’ voice wobbles familiarly a moment, but he composes himself pretty fast, “Rachel would always say it must be hard for me to be surrounded by girls twenty-four-seven, asked me if I would be more comfortable with Group A, like she, I don’t know, knew something I didn’t.”

Thomas nods, letting his cheek press against Aris’ soft hair as he listens.

“And then I got here and realised what all that was about.”

Thomas understands.

He had spent months thinking they were weird, that maybe the Trials and WICKED had permanently broken something inside of them. That he should lose himself in Aris when they’re reclined, lips against each other’s lips, breathes mixing, hands wandering and gripping hair, that he should want something more, that he should think about more when they’re in their bed, Aris’ arm slung over his waist and his chest pressed to Thomas’ back, thighs, hips, calves slotted together, that he should need more.

Thomas nods, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Aris’ head. And he is still thinking about this conversation when it is late and they’re getting ready for bed.

Aris asks him, “What do you like?” and Thomas looks at him and thinks, _I like the way your eyes crinkle in the corners when you laugh._

_I like how you look when you’ve just woken up, how you walk around the kitchen like a zombie, eyes still closed, and making grabby hands for the coffee._

_I like how you draw when you can’t sleep because the sound of the pencil against the paper helps_ me _sleep._

_I like how you don’t let anyone talk down to you, even if they’re twice your size._

_I like how you don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks._

_I like how you like me, for some reason._

Thomas allows a small smile to stretch across his face and leans into Aris, capturing his mouth for a stilled moment, softly feeling Aris’ eyelids fluttering against his cheeks. Thomas tells him, “I like this.”

 

 *

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://singt0me.tumblr.com/) here


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